Nonfiction | December 01, 1991
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Perhaps the most private experiences are the most universal. I wonder about this. I know that for talented, dreaming children growing up in the South, there is a common shadow line of isolation that is crossed, and that we cannot know for years how strongly it has affected us. It is that moment when, after seeking, we find someone to share a private language, a private hope, not taste, but true pitch, not an accepted “artistic” experience, but a friend who, in a desert, speaks the language we thought was alien and private.
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